This was in very nice condition and would retail for about eight thousand dollars. I could flip it to a buddy of mine for four grand. Enough money in it for everyone to make a profit.
Danny goes, 'Huh?'
'Danny, it's worth a little more than you think. Take the G.'
'Sure, P, sure man. Whatever you say.'
Mai smiles and says, 'For that kind'a money, Mr. Picker, you can have it gift wrapped.'
'Not necessary Mai. I’ll take it as is. See ya later, guys. And thanks.'
'No, thank you P. Later, dude.'
I run over to New Hope to see my friend Barry. He has one of the more successful antique businesses in the area. Barry specializes in vintage garden decorations and oriental rugs. Oh yeah, we share a love of cigars.
He sees me pull up and comes out to greet me. After exchanging hellos I pop the trunk and pull out the Pambak.
'Nice rug. How much?'
'I got a grand in it. What can you do?'
Barry walks around the rug which is laid out in the parking lot. He looks at the rug, looks up at me, back at the rug. He smiles, 'How's four thousand?'
'Perfect.'
We walk into his shop and he writes me a check. He reaches into a humidor that sits next to the register and pulls out a cigar.
'Here,' he says, 'Try this. And by the way. People have been asking for you. Two guys, dark suits.'
I ask, 'And, what did you tell 'em?'
'Nothing.'
'Thanks. Catch ya later.'
I head home. My place is in a Philly suburb on the other side of the Schuylkill River. My mind begins to wander and tries to make sense of what is happening. Something is tickling at the back of my brain but I can't quite put my finger on it. Everything that I heard today must be related to my South Philly visit yesterday. I still don't see how.
Early the next morning, around 4:00am, I pull the '56 Chevy pickup out of the garage and head up to the Columbus Farmers Market.
It was established in 1929 by one Harry Ruopp. Originally, it was a livestock and farm equipment auction held at 11:00am every Thursday. Over the years it has become a well known shopping center and flea market. It sits on about 200 acres and is one of the largest markets on the East coast. It's about an hour from me, located on Route 206 in Columbus, NJ.
I pull in around five thirty and park in the customer lot. I'm here to buy, not sell. There are a few high clouds and the air is a little brisk.
I walk into the indoor market and grab a donut and coffee. Step back outside and wander the flea. I run into Mark, a dealer from Staten Island. We've known each other for a long time. Average height, stocky with thinning hair. I like him.
His table has an assortment of items from a clean out from his neck of the woods. Clean outs are a superb method of acquiring new stock. This stuff looks like it hasn't seen the light of day for over a century.
'Yeah, yeah,' he says, 'This guy lived into his nineties, and get this, he lived in his parents house his whole life. This stuff has some age.'
No kidding. Most of it was just stuff, old stuff, but stuff nonetheless. One thing, however, did catch my eye.
'Mark, how much for the pocket watch?'
It was a Swiss 14K gold minute repeater chronograph with a moonphase calendar, circa 1890. It had a white enamel dial, black marking for indicating day, date and month along with a moon phase aperture. The hands were gold and blue steel. This particular watch chimes with different tones to designate minutes, quarter hours and hours. Nice loud and clear chimes. I had only seen one other. The full retail on this is $9,500. Beautiful.
He says, 'It's worth close to ten g's.'
'I know. What do you have to get for it?'
'I’ll do seven.'
Seven was fair, but I wanted fairer. 'Five grand.'
'Sixty-five hundred.'
'Six, cash.'
Mark smiles, 'Deal.'
I tell Mark that my runner will be here around eight o'clock. “Tell TJ the details, he'll pick it up.”
'Picker, one more thing. Tommy Gunn has something to sell. He's asking after you.'
So, I go looking for Tommy.
I walk up and down the aisles, just looking. Columbus is divided into three outdoor sections. One is a squared lot that sells only new merchandise. The next one is a squared section that deals in anything old. This includes anything from clothes and household items to collectibles and antiques. The third section is a row of dealers that runs along the building and handles the overflow from the 'old' section.
It was at the very last table, removed from just about everything, that I find Tommy and his brother, Machine, set up.
Tommy greets me with an effusive smile and a 'How the hell are ya Pick?'
We shake hands and I ask, 'Got something to show me Tommy?'
'Sure, sure, you're going to love this. It's in the back of my van. Come, take a look.'
Of course, I was born yesterday. I walk over to the back of the van, lean into the rear to get a better view. Guess what? The lights go out. My lights.
Son of a bitch wacked me upside of my head.
By this point in the story, Kelly and I had moved into the living room downstairs. We started on our second cups of coffee.
Over the next few minutes I tell Kelly the rest of the tale, about how the next thing that happens is waking up in a dumpster in Manhattan. I fill her in on what I managed to buy that day, the call to TJ and Doo-Wop's demise.
The last I tell her is about my visit to South Philly that evening and Tommy G's death.
She looks at me with those bright green eyes and is incredulous when she says, 'You let them kill that poor bastard on the say so of a ghost!'
'Not just any ghost' I say, 'Uncle Moe.'
Now, I have to tell you, PKAL has always had trouble with this ghost thing.
Moses Aronson, my Uncle Moe, was my father's father's brother. So actually, he's my Great Uncle. Got that? Here's the interesting bit, he has been dead for nearly thirty years.
Moe has taken an active part in my upbringing since I was six. My mother died young and I never knew my father. The convincing part of this whole ghost argument is that Moe knows things that I can't possibly know. Take that for what it’s worth.
At that very moment, just as I finished bringing Kelly up to date, the front door swings open. Two men walk in. Their right arms are extended and holding guns. Both are pointed directly at my chest.
January 1975 Philadelphia
Vedi! le fosche notturne spoglie de' cieli sveste l'immensa volta: sembra una vedova che alfin si toglie i bruni panni ond'era involta.
All'opra, all'opra!
Dagli.
Martella.
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella?
